The Man Who Could Never
by HaleKent
Summary: Takes place after A Scandal in Belgravia. Set as if it is John's blog. He and Sherlock have a case, and some interesting things progress.


The Man Who Could Never

Sherlock Holmes: The man who could never be wrong, never show emotions, never get caught with his guard down. The man who could never show his love, toward anyone.

We were on a case when I first realized it.

There he was, being clever as always, but he had missed something. The young boy, poor thing, had fallen and fatally hit his head. "He's been tripped," I told him, pointing to the marks around his rain boots. There was a faint outline of a handprint that had been cleared around the mud. It was rather large, and so I was surprised when he never said anything.

Of course, he just waved his hand at me as if he had seen it anyway, but there was a look he had given me, the minutest smile I'd ever seen that had risen up the corners of his mouth, and I so wanted to make him smile like that again, like it was our secret.

He and Lestrade were looking around for more clues before they finally noticed a pair of shoe prints. Measurements were taken. Speculations given. I watched Sherlock, his eyes flitting around, desperately trying to find more clues and retake control of the situation. He saw something. I don't know what it was. When Inspector Lestrade turned away, Sherlock bent down and picked something off the child's back. He slipped it into a small test tube that I didn't even realize he had with him, and stove his hand into his jacket just as Lestrade turned back. The inspector hadn't noticed a thing.

It wasn't long before Sherlock ushered me to back to Baker Street. I prepared tea as he moved around the flat, whispering things to himself. I sat and watched, eager to figure out the case. Who would want to harm the boy? He was only about twelve years of age. "You think he saw something someone didn't want him to see?" I asked, eyeing him intently.

"Precisely, John. But who? And what? What did the child see that made this man want to kill him?" he questioned, mostly to himself. He ran his hands through his unruly hair, and I watched as his curls cascaded back in to place.

"Man? How do you know it's a man?"

"John," he began, his eyes staring at me with amusement, "the size of the hand was approximately eight inches long and four inches wide. The shoe was a size forty-four, and it was about half an inch into the mud. I estimate that the man we are looking for is 200 pounds and seventy-five and a half inches tall." He ended with a smile, happy that he had figured out something I hadn't. But that was Sherlock.

"Right, so have you told Greg?" I asked, sipping my tea.

"Who?" he asked absent-mindedly.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "_Inspector Lestrade._"

"Oh," he said as he plopped onto the couch. He reached for his tea and sipped it lightly as he thought.

"So, have you?"

"No. I was thinking about it on the way back. Poor boy, though. I wonder what he saw…" Without another word, he jumped up and wrapped his scarf around his neck. I laughed silently and lifted myself from my chair, shaking out the soreness in my leg. He hailed another taxi and was shoving me inside before I had a chance to ask where we were going.

It ended up being an old theatre. Empty, now, but for some reason, it was a good idea to him. We were looking around on the stage when he started savagely sneezing. "You alright?" I asked when he didn't stop.

"Allergies," he coughed out, hurrying to the entrance.

"What are you allergic to?" I asked in surprise.

"John," he said, patronizingly, "I can't let you know all my secrets, now can I?"

"So, why are we here?" I asked.

"I had a hunch," he said, waving an arm toward the street.

"And?"

"And now we're leaving."

…

It was difficult to follow his train of thought some times. Most of the time. Almost all the time. It was days later, and I still don't know why we went to that theatre. He had finally told Lestrade the few things we knew about the man in question, but it didn't help if we didn't know things like his facial features. Lestrade couldn't do anything with the information, so it was rather pointless to everyone who wasn't Sherlock. We continued going to random places, but it wasn't unusual. Not until I noticed something.

It was just a passing glance when I saw a man coming out of the loo. The women's loo. "Sherlock," I whispered. "Did you see that bloke?" Sherlock watched the man carefully, not moving his head, but cautiously moving his eyes. He nodded slightly. "He just came from the women's loo. Isn't that a bit strange?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned. I wondered for a moment if I had one-upped him again.

I hadn't noticed where we were walking until I saw the man in front of us. We were following him. We were several meters away, but we were unmistakably trailing him. This man was bigger than what Sherlock had described. He was taller, heavier, and had a foot bigger than my calf. "Sherlock, that's not the man we're looking for," I said, looking up to him curiously.

"I know."

"So, why are we following him?" I asked.

"I want to know why he was in the female's loo," he said as if it were the most natural thing.

The man in question stopped at a small café and began talking to smaller, ginger man. A man closer to the description of who we were looking for. Sherlock didn't make himself known as he looked around, carefully inspecting every detail he could manage. When he had finished, we quietly walked away. "What did you see?"

"He has several cats. He works with his hands, and he has a bad shoulder, possibly from his work, but that's difficult to say for sure. He seems to have done manual labor for the majority of his life, but now has a desk job. His right hand bore several bandages, from which seems like terrible paper cuts. His tie was crooked, so he is not accustomed to looking in the mirror before he leaves for work, and there wasn't a ring or tan-line on his left finger; therefore he is not married, nor has he ever been. He doesn't like the taste of coffee, yet he drank his dark with sugar, meaning he isn't sleeping well and he has to keep himself up during the day. I deduce that he has either just been promoted or there's something deeply worrying him." He let out a large breath, as if he hadn't inhaled or exhaled throughout his entire explanation.

I smiled up at him. "You truly are spectacular."

He smiled widely at me. Something about my words seemed to light up his eyes, and that's when I knew that I wanted his eyes to light up like that, all the time. He was truly a spectacular man.

…

Sherlock continued to keep an eye out on the two men through his underground network. There was nothing of news to have come up yet, and he was beginning to be anxious. The yellow face on the wall was past riddled with bullet holes, and despite Mrs. Hudson's fussing, Sherlock continued to play his violin at two and three in the morning. I was accustomed to it by now, but it was still nice to hear him play every now and then. Especially when I couldn't sleep.

I don't think Sherlock knows what it's like to obtain eight hours of sleep. Never once have I ever seen him go to bed before me or come from his room after me. I try to sleep, but it doesn't always happen. It helps to hear him play a bit. Although I'd probably never tell him, it sort of soothes me. It's not easy to sleep when thoughts about the war plague my dreams.

I never told him, but I know the nights when he doesn't sleep at all. I think he thinks he's hiding it from _because he's so clever_, but I can see the signs. There are bags under his eyes. Very minute, but they are there. He's more agitated during the day. Drinking coffee incessantly, smoking fags, though he never lets me see. He thinks I'd tell Mycroft. I don't know why he thinks I talk to Mycroft all the time. I haven't seen him in ages.

There was one night where I couldn't sleep. Apparently, neither could he. I heard him, moving around the flat, shuffling papers and tapping away on his computer. Reluctantly, I came down the stairs. It was about three in the morning. He was sitting at the desk, his back was impeccably straight, but he didn't move as I sat on the couch. I flipped on the telly, and watched some boring show. I wasn't really paying attention. In all honesty, it was just a good way to stare at him without being overly obvious.

He was working on something, probably about the case. His blue eyes were glued to the screen. It lit up his already pale face unnaturally, and his eyebrows were furrowed together. I couldn't see half his face, but I knew that his lips were pursed and jaw was clenched in concentration. My curiosity eventually got the best of me. "What're you working on?"

His head popped up from behind the screen, almost as if I had scared him. Perhaps I had. "Just a few things for the case. I hadn't heard you come in." His face was completely relaxed as he peered over the screen at me.

I looked at him strangely, but I didn't say I had been rather loud, and he must have been really zoned out not to have heard me. "Sorry," I said instead. "Need any help?"

"No."

I lied back against the couch, shifting around a bit before I found a comfortable place for my shoulder and leg. It wasn't long before the clacking of keys stopped, and I faintly heard him shut the computer. I didn't remember closing my eyes, but a moment later, I felt him tap my shoulder. "Let me sit down," he said, forcing me to sit up and allow him space. I must have said something because he asked me, "Is this okay?"

I pried my eyes open wide enough to see his blurry figure and realized my head was in his lap. "Just fine," I told him before shutting them again. I felt his hand in my hair, lightly rubbing my scalp with his fingertips.

I was almost asleep when I heard him say, "Get some sleep, my friend." I think I mumbled a 'good night,' because he chuckled. I don't remember anything else.

…

Lestrade came over the next morning. Mrs. Hudson had thankfully woken both Sherlock and myself from our places on the couch. She gave me a certain smile, and even though the words, "I'm not gay," was on the tip of my tongue, I never said them. She seemed to realize this, because she smiled even wider. Sherlock obviously hadn't noticed. We were able to change clothes and re-enter before the inspector came in.

"We've had three bomb threats made to Tower of London within the past few hours. We have our bomb squad searching the area, but we can't find anything. We've shut it down to tourists, and only the police have access to the area. The dogs smell nothing, and I'm at a loss," the man said hysterically.

"So, you've come at," Sherlock looked at his watch, "ten in the morning, to tell me about a bomb that hasn't gone off and you have the situation under control? Why do you need me?"

Lestrade scrunched his eyebrows together. "Watson just asked how my morning was." I didn't remember doing that. Force of habit, I suppose. He passed a strange glance between the two of us. "So, how's the case coming?"

I shrugged, uncertain, but Sherlock launched into his tale of staying up and listening to his underground informants. He was suddenly pulling his jacket and scarf on, as if he had just had an epiphany. "Hurry on, John," he called as he reached the bottom of the stairs. I looked at Lestrade who just looked utterly confused as well. I followed Sherlock into the taxi, leaving the Inspector to his own devices.

"So… where are we going this time?" I asked, looking out the window as to figure it out myself.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" he asked, rather harshly.

"Sherlock, you have to remember that not everyone has as brilliant a brain as yourself. I cannot always follow your train of thought. Please enlighten me," I told him politely. He likes it when I say please.

He grinned momentarily before expounding. He's usually put in a better mood after I call him 'brilliant.' "Do you remember where we found the boy?" I nodded. "There are quite a few warehouses in that area. I didn't want to go to them sooner, in case the murderer was still around, but it seems that he and his troupe have moved on elsewhere. I want to look around for things they may have left behind."

"But, Sherlock, I don't understand—"

"T-shirt," he interrupted.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't understand why we haven't gone before," I continued, ignoring his jibe. "Or why we're not telling the inspector. This is part of his case, Sherlock. He should know things like this," I berated.

"Oh, calm down, John. I've already sent him a text with the address, and he'll be there soon after we get there. I just want a look before he contaminates everything." He rolled his eyes at me. I just chuckled softly. He likes to win. He likes to be first. Must be something he and Mycroft did as they were younger.

Within a few minutes, we were back in the area where we had found the young boy. Unfortunately, the rain that had fallen over the past few days had washed away all the evidence of his murder; however, it wasn't the dirt and mud that my friend was interested in. I followed him toward the community of warehouses. The whole district was rather eerie. The overcast sky mixed with the air of murder sent chills down my spine. Instinctively, I hung closer to Sherlock, as if his genius would shroud me from the desolate buildings. I trusted him, probably more than anyone should, but he and I… we have a strong connection. He trusts me just as much, I think.

Sherlock looked around at the buildings, five large warehouses all set up in neat, little rows. He seemed to be calculating in his mind, as always. He launched himself toward the second one from the far right, almost running to the windows that were along its side. When I was next to him once more, after climbing upon a few crates to get to them, he looked at me and smiled, mischievously. "John, take a deep breath, and exhale… here," he said, pointing to one of the lowest panes.

I didn't question him. I did as he said, and I was thoroughly shocked to see a small handprint appear. "The boy was here?" I looked at the crates we just climbed on, surprised he could have made it this high.

"Imagine this," he said, climbing down the crates and onto the more sturdy ground. "It's dusk. The boy, whom we were told was playing with his friend on the waters' edge earlier, was left alone. His friends had gone home. Or so he thought. He saw a light on, and he knew that these warehouses are no longer used. He thought his friends were inside, pulling a joke on him. He climbed up the crates, wanting to see what they were deoing instead of barging in; however, the people he saw were not his friends.

"He saw several men working, but he could not see what. He only knew that he felt like what he was seeing was bad, and he needed to tell someone. He tried to hurry down, but from our own observations, it wasn't that easy. He jumped from the second level down to the first. His foot burst through, making the pallet board crack. Someone inside heard him. He ran as fast as he could, but it was slippery, even with his boots on. The man had longer legs than he did and caught him quickly." Sherlock looked sad as he finished his tale. I looked to my right, and there it was: the cracked pallet. Looking closely, one could probably see a few threads from the boy's trousers where they had torn as he pulled his foot out.

Lestrade finally found us. He complained to Sherlock, who ignored him. Together, with my and Lestrade's guns pulled, we carefully entered the building. It was mainly empty, aside from the several shelving units it held and an odor I could not precisely place. Toward the side, where the windows were where the boy looked in, there were several long tables pushed together, but they were cleared. Sherlock drug his index finger across one. When he lifted it, it was covered in a dark grime. He sniffed it lightly and coughed.

"Gun powder," he said, cleaning his hand with his handkerchief. "I think this is where your bomb makers originated, Inspector."

"You think that this case is connected with the bomb threats we received today?" the grey-haired man asked.

"Certainly. It is too coincidental. I don't believe in coincidences," Sherlock told him easily. "But, they do not intend to use the bombs at The Tower. That is just a diversion."

"What do you think they want to blow up instead?" he asked, pulling out his phone to call his team.

"The Tower is mainly for tourists," I spoke up. "Anyone who's lived in London a while knows that. Most schools take trips there while the kids are young, so everyone around here has seen it," I said. "He wants it to be something big. Something where a lot of people will be visiting, whether they are locals or tourists. They want to make a scene."

"Well, I know certainly the place," Sherlock smiled. He flipped out his phone and dialed his brother. "Hello, Big Brother. I have some news. You need to evacuate the Palace."

"_The Palace? Buckingham Palace?" _Mycroft shrieked.

"Yes, Buckingham Palace," Sherlock groaned.

"_What the bloody hell for?"_

"There's a bomb."

"_A bomb?"_

"Yes, Mycroft. A bomb. Now, will you please evacuate the entire area? Say, about a hundred and fifty meters in diameter from the Palace," he said nonchalantly, picking the new grime out from his fingernail.

"_And what information, pray tell, do you have that I should vacate the royal family?"_

Sherlock looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Just trust me, will you please." He hung up abruptly and just stood there quietly. Barely two minutes had passed when a string of helicopters flew across the sky. The detective smiled and hurried me toward the main road to hail a new taxi. As if on a last thought, he looked to Inspector Lestrade and said, "I will text you an address. We will require back up. But no sirens." He _tsk_ed the last sentence, which made me laugh at his strange humor. Without another word, we were off.

We arrived at the same theatre we had come to several days prior. Again, it was empty. I was curious to what he was expecting to find. "John, do you still have your pistol?" Reluctantly, I pulled it out of my holster, and gripped it tightly. I followed him closely as we made our way to the back of the theatre, cautiously looking for any sign of movement. I heard Lestrade's team coming through the front door, and I hoped they were quiet enough not to alert the enemy to our locations.

Silently, Sherlock and I tip-toed down the stairs behind the crossover. I didn't know what to look for, but apparently, and obviously, he did. He kicked open the leading lady's dressing room door, and I immediately brought the barrel of my gun to point at the man in the room.

The man, the heavier one we saw in the café, was sitting in one of the chairs with his hand lingering on his phone. His dark hair was severally disheveled, while his eyes seemed to sink into his skull. Shadows were deep under his eyes, causing his brown eyes to shine against his skin.

"I didn't want to do it," he gasped, clutching his jacket with his free hand.

"Put your hands up. Stand, and set the device down, carefully," I said forcefully, stronger than I actually felt. He did as I told him. He put his hands on the back of his head and eyed the phone. His shirt untucked slightly, and I could see where the man had made his own holes in his belt from losing so much weight so quickly. He was severally undernourished, sleep deprived, and looked as if one thing went wrong, he would immediately have a heart attack. The man looked from Sherlock to myself and my gun, then back to his phone.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't want to do it," he said again. Sherlock looked at the screen, seeing a woman clenching a small child. "He… he threatened my family." Tears were pouring down the man's face. He was terrified.

"Do you know where they are?" Sherlock whispered. The man shook his head violently. Moments later, I saw Lestrade enter the room where the man's family was held. Sherlock turned the man's phone off. "They're safe. You need to come with us. Where are the others? The man you met with last Thursday, at the café, where is he?"

"I don't know," the man said. "He said he knew you would come here. He left me here."

I stepped out of the room for a moment and saw multiple officers coming my way. "In here," I called. "This man needs medical attention. His family was threatened. He was forced here. Make sure the inspector knows that, hmm?"

"Yes, sir," they murmured taking the man with them. Sherlock and I followed behind them. He muttered to himself quietly, most likely trying to figure out where the real enemies were.

We were in the auditorium, about to step down from the stage when the plump man turned round. "Mr. Holmes," he stuttered. "I was told to give this to you." He withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket.

Sherlock took it without hesitation. The officers walked the man out of the building while Sherlock lifted the envelope towards the lights. It appeared empty.

"I don't think you should open that," I told him, looking at the parcel curiously.

"Nonsense," he declared. He ripped the edge of it, causing little particles to float into the air. Almost immediately, Sherlock began gasping for air.

"Sherlock, what is it?" I asked. He couldn't answer. He wheezed sporadically, unable to catch his breath. He grasped my shoulders and began to slink to the floor. "Sherlock!" I didn't know what to do. My friend was suffering from what appeared to be a severe allergic reaction. An epiphany hit as I realized what I should do. I reached into his pocket for his cell and re-dialed the last number called.

"_What now?"_ Mycroft scoffed.

"Mycroft!" I gaped. "It's Sherlock. I think he's had some sort of allergic reaction. I just don't know to what. Please tell me he has an epinephrine auto-injector!" 

The man on the other end just sighed. "It's in his left sock." I didn't have time to question what the older Holmes brother had told me. As quickly as I could, I lifted Sherlock's trouser leg, practically ripping the pen from his sock. I stabbed him in his thigh and waited. Five seconds passed. Ten seconds. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and hugged him to me. I looked down at his placid face.

"Please, Sherlock," I whispered, softly running a hand through his loose curls repeatedly. "Please, come back. We're not done here. You're not done. Please, don't die. I really, really need you to not be dead. Please, Sherlock. I need you." At some point, I had started crying. I laid my forehead against his and sobbed. "Please…" I gasped, struggling for my own breath. "Sherlock… I love you."

I lost track of how much time passed. But finally, _finally_, he gasped. His blue eyes were wide and alert, staring at me intently. "Dammit, Sherlock!" I said, hugging him tightly. "You scared me." I leaned back, and stood before helping him to his feet.

"_Watson!"_ Mycroft yelled from the forgotten phone.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and picked up his cell. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "Thank you." He hung up, abruptly, again. He looked down at me, and I was suddenly terrified of the man. Had he heard what I had told him? What would he think of me now? I know he didn't believe in love or relationships. He had told me many times. But there was a desperate part of me that prayed I was different. "Thank you, John." He glanced at the accursed paper on the floor and nearly jumped away from it. We were out of the auditorium so fast it made me dizzy.

We were in a taxi again, heading God knows where. "Are you alright?" I eventually asked.

"Just fine," he said. His voice was still rough.

"We should really get you to a hospital," I said, trying to be as calm as possible, even though my pulse and my mind was racing frantically.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"Right…" There was an awkward silence that filled the air. I knew that we would have to have a serious conversation later, but right now, we needed to find and capture the bomb-makers. "Where are we going now?"

He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. "We are going to The Smith and Jones Complex. While you were ushering the police in to get Mr. Mason, he told me that is where he works, and it is also where the mystery man first approached him. Surely, someone there must know who he is."

"Oh," was all I could say. I couldn't look at him. He wasn't looking at me, either. I could see, just out of the corner of my eye that he was staring out of the window, slowly running a hand over his throat. His face was blotchy, red spots littered across his nose and cheekbones. Despite that, he still looked beautiful. Even more so now that he was still alive. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, but I was so happy that he was still with me.

We arrived at the company with not another word between us. I approached the receptionist and gave her my best smile. "Hi. I was wondering if you could tell us where Mr. Mason's office is?"

"Mr. Erik Mason? Room 315," she told me sweetly. We followed her directions, even after she called, "but he's not in today."

Sherlock surpassed me, while I questioned Mason' secretary. "I was wondering if you can recall a man, ginger, about yea-high," I said, moving my hand above my head. "He's a bit heavier than I am… Erik had made an appointment with him for mw, but I cannot remember his name. I don't want to be rude, you see."

The woman giggled. I had never noticed how annoying that sound could be. "That's Mr. Enk. He never gives a first name, but I think Mr. Mason called him Robert a few times. I've only seen him come around a few times. He was always really nice."

"Did you ever hear what they were talking about?" I asked politely. "It's really important. Anything you can tell me about him."

"Umm," she said, biting her lip. "I heard them argue a few days ago. Mr. Enk had hired Mr. Mason to do a job, and Mr. Mason didn't want to do it. He said that it was too much. I don't know what they were talking about though."

"Thank you so much, Miss Pearson." I followed Sherlock into Mason's office. He was currently bent over on the floor, eyeing the carpet. I tore my eyes away from him and just leaned against the wall, looking at anywhere but him. "So, the man's name is Robert Enk. Secretary said that he doesn't give a first name. They argued, but she doesn't know what it was about."

Sherlock straightened up and flicked the fuzz from the carpet off of him. "Obviously they were discussing the bombs. There's spots of mud on the carpet, and it smells heavily of smoke, but it didn't come from Mason. Enk is not accustomed to wearing suits, so I think there's someone above him who is making the call."

We quickly left the office, and I received a message. It was from Lestrade. _There is a man called Robert Enk who works for Interpol. IF this is the man involved, we must be sure. _Sherlock must have messaged him. I relayed the message. He just nodded. Another message. _Fingerprints have come back from the theatre. Match for Enk and a bloke named Harvelle. En route. Your job is over._ _Thanks for the help._

"Well," I said, showing Sherlock my phone. "That was uneventful."

Sherlock groaned and let his head hit the back of the seat. The taxi arrived on Baker Street, and we trudged up the stairs.

…

I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes. I looked around the flat and jumped when I realized that Sherlock was behind me. "Are you going to post that onto your blog?" he asked, stepping away. I pushed the chair back and stood, stretching the soreness from my limbs.

"I don't think so," I said as I put the kettle on.

"Why?"

I shrugged and pulled out my mug. "No. No, I don't think so. It's… no." I could feel him staring at me as I poured my tea. It was late, past the time I usually retired for bed, but I couldn't make myself go. There was that conversation I needed to have with him, but I had no idea where to start. I sat down in my chair and carefully tasted my tea.

"I know what you said," he said quietly.

I almost dropped my cup. "You—you did?" He nodded. "Well, I'm not entirely certain what to say."

He crossed his legs, slouching slightly, and folded his hands, propping his head up by the chin. "You always said you're not gay."

"I'm not," I said. "I don't like men. I like you. Just you." I was speaking softly now, but I knew he could hear me. "I like women, usually. There were several women I thought I had loved. But the feelings I had for them, Sherlock," I looked him in the eyes as I spoke, just a little louder now, "those feelings are nothing—_nothing_—compared to how I feel with you."

I saw him gape openly for a few seconds before realizing what he was doing. He didn't seem to know what to say, either. I noticed then that his face was cleared up. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I think relationships are distracting from my work."

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not trying to take you to bed. I am not trying to manipulate you, tell you things I think you want to hear, or harm you in any way. I don't want anything from you. I am simply telling you how I feel. I love you. I am in love with you. You don't have to do anything about it if you don't want to. We don't even have to tell anyone. Not my readers, or my therapist, or our families. I've been around long enough that I won't distract you, unless there's something you need to tell me?" I set my tea down and sat on the edge of my chair. My elbows were on my knees, and I waited. I could see expressions flickering across his face. I wish I could deduce things as he could.

Eventually, he mirrored my posture. We were close now. I could feel heat radiating from his body, and I could feel his breath on me when he exhaled. Slowly, he wrapped his right hand around my left wrist and just held it there. I didn't question him. I don't think I could have heard him anyway. All I could hear was my heart thumping rapidly in my ears. I licked my suddenly dry lips and tried to swallow my fear. "Sherlock," I whispered, unable to say anything else.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked. Sometimes that smirk was so infuriating, like he knew something I didn't. But right now, I couldn't seem to care. The intensity of his stare was getting worse as the moment pressed on. "John…" he finally spoke. "You know, love is not quite a mystery to me as you would believe." He smiled. Not smirked. _Smiled._ "I know what love is. I know how love works. I know the chemistry of it and the effects. I know that love is irrational. It makes for poor judgment, and it causes people to act strangely." He took a deep breath and leaned in further. We were almost touching now, and I could swear I was about to have a heart attack. "For instance," he began, "your heart rate is approximately 110 beats a minute. Your pupils are roughly six millimeters, and you haven't shut your mouth fully since I moved."

Immediately, I closed my mouth, not even noticing I had been doing so. He laughed. "Sherlock, I am well aware of how I am reacting. It would help if you could tell me what's on your mind." I didn't move as I spoke. The grin on his face never disappeared. Slowly, his left hand drug up my arm until his palm was resting on the back of my neck. Tentatively, he shifted forward, bringing his lips ever so close to mine. This was his ninety per cent. He simply waited for my final ten.

I licked my lips and carefully placed them on his. This was already more than what I had ever expected. Sherlock responded quicker than I had. His lips moved with mine, and I felt so happy that I could cry.

We broke apart just a moment later. Both of us were panting, but we were wearing matching grins. "I do know what love is, John. Because I learned it from you."

I kissed him, but this time I caught him by surprise. I hope this would be a regular thing for us now. "I love you, Sherlock." We stayed like that for several minutes, exchanging small kisses and terms of endearment, but finally, we moved. I poured myself a new cup of tea, smiling as I watched him sit on the couch, leaving enough room for me. We sat in silence, watching an old movie, before I remembered something. "Sherlock, there are a few things I don't understand."

"Hmm?" was all he said.

"How did you know to go to the theatre? When we were examining the scene, I saw you put something into a vial, but I never saw what it was."

"It was clay from a brick. I found that it was from the theatre that was closed several decades ago. It was the only place that used the type. It must have fallen onto Enk's jacket at the theatre and fallen off when he tackled the boy," he said confidently.

"Oh. May I ask something personal?" I felt him stiffen next to me. Hesitantly, he nodded. "What was it that you were so allergic to?"

"Promise you won't make fun?"

"Swear," I promised.

"Cat dander."

I nodded. I didn't smile or laugh. Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder and whispered. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of you."

He smiled lightly and looked at me. "I know you will, my doctor."


End file.
